


Crown of Stars 'Verse

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Collaboration, F/M, Illustrated, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The writing of these pieces predates the writing of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/728117"><b>Crown of Thorns 'Verse</b></a>; they run parallel to it as an AU-scenario in which Heaven and Hell try again and the Apocalypse <i>actually happens</i>.  This 'verse does end well, but there's a reasonable amount of terror and trauma along the way.  Apologies in advance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Matters

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter, "What Matters," is set in 1990, almost immediately after the events of the novel. Everything else moves forward in time from there; I have a hand-written chronology in a notebook somewhere, which I really ought to dig up. Originally written and posted to LJ from 2005 through 2010.
> 
> The playlist for this series [is now available on 8tracks.com](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/good-omens-a-crown-of-stars), so have a listen.

Uriel's hair is shorter than Aziraphale has ever seen it, bleach-blonde and spiked. Same earrings as ever, glass and gold dangling down to her angular jaw. She's hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Expensive ones, just like an American movie star. Or just like Crowley.

Aziraphale slips quietly into the chair across from her. It feels a bit wrong, being here without Crowley, but Crowley has been asleep for twelve hours straight. Aziraphale had lingered beside him for a long time after the shock had worn off, after his breathing had gone slow and his limbs pliant, just watching him. At least they'd had a proper stroll in the park and lunch at the Ritz first. Inevitable, he'd supposed. 

_Ineffable_.

"You survived, then," says Uriel, sliding the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. She grins and takes them off, folding them neatly beside her champagne flute. "I knew those would catch your eye. This calls for a toast, doesn't it?"

"Which?" asks Aziraphale, before he can stop himself, and _blushes_ for the first time since...gracious, he can't say when. He'd wondered what the situation on the ground was in North America, and although he'd popped in briefly here and there whilst discorporated, he hadn't got a clear picture of what was going on, not by any stretch.

"The End of the World," Uriel says, "or the confession you're this close to making."

"Very well, dear girl," he says wearily. "Both. There's no use in lying to you, is there?"

"Nope," she replies, miracling another glass of champagne so deftly Aziraphale could have sworn it had already been there. "When you work with humans as closely as I do, you learn to spot it a mile off." She clinks her glass against Aziraphale's and takes a long swallow. "Guess who turned up on my doorstep and hid in my flat till the worst of it had blown over? Couldn't take all the tremors. San Fran to Toronto, who'd have thought he could fly it in forty-five minutes?" She lights a cigarette.

"No permanent damage done," Aziraphale sighs. "The boy was conscientious."

"You should see the state of my sheets," Uriel says. "Tell Adam Young to fix _that_."

"I'm, ah, not sure he can fix something of which he's not aware."

"He sure fixed you two," Uriel says, breaking into a mischievous smile.

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, takes a deep breath.

"I should like to think," he says, "that it was our own decision. Just like the rest of it."

"You sided with them," Uriel says. "With _mine_. Listen, if it ever comes to it—"

"If it ever comes to it _again_ ," Aziraphale corrects her, "you know where to find us."

Uriel nods into her glass. "I'm sorry. I'd have come if Raphael hadn't—"

"It's the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Ninety. Surely they'll wait a while."

"Or maybe they'll just forget," says Uriel, softly. "I hope they'll forget."

Aziraphale thinks of Crowley's warm skin and hitched breath, of the look on his face when he'd come. The look on his face when _Aziraphale_ had come. Sheer wonder.

Uriel clears her throat, clandestinely refilling her glass.

"I never thought I'd see the day," she says. "Not that it's not sweet and all, but..."

"But what?" Aziraphale prompts, not liking the tilt of her frown.

She flicks ash on the pavement. "I don't know what you see in him. Nice for what he is, yes, absolutely. You've got me there. He didn't so much Fall as trip and make an arse of himself, and part of him's been trying to make up for it ever since. You, though, _you've_ got a lot to answer for. Is that what it is? He keeps you respectable?"

Aziraphale experiences a flash of genuine anger, but quells it as swiftly as he can. 

_Crowley wrapped around him. Crowley's startled laughter at the brush of Aziraphale's fingers behind his knee. Crowley's voice, low and drowsy, asking if Aziraphale thinks everything is going to be all right. Telling him yes, touching his hair. Holding him._

"He reminds me," Aziraphale tells her calmly, "of what matters."


	2. A Crown of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle

_'Mine too, I suppose.  That's bureaucracy for you.'  
  
'And I think mine are waiting to see what happens next,' said Aziraphale.  
  
Crowley nodded.  'A breathing space,' he said.  'A chance to morally re-arm.  Get the defences up.  Ready for the big one.'  
  
They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.  
  
'Sorry?' said Aziraphale.  'I thought that _was_ the big one.'  
  
'I'm not sure,' said Crowley.  'Think about it.  For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them.'_  
  
  
 _'What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?'_

_  
  
_— Good Omens, p. 161  
  
  


**XXXIII.**

  
  
  
It was Tuesday, the third day of the rest of the world, in a place that had lost track of Time.  Before the Throne, the Voice of God bowed low, its golden hair brushing a cloudy marble floor that never needed sweeping and was not really there at all.  
  
"Lord," whispered the Metatron.  "The Enemy has failed.  We might…"  
  
Silence.  
  
The Metatron raised its head cautiously, frowning.  Its Meaning had not been taken.  
  
"Your Eminence," it said tentatively, "in the Beginning, if You recall, we left an agent—"  
  
 _Silence_.  
  
"Yes, Lord," sighed the Metatron, defeated, and left, its golden feet dragging.  
  
Behind it, the Doors slammed and locked.  
  
  


**XXXII.**

  
  
  
In the third week of the rest of their lives, Anathema fell ill.  
  
"You're running a temperature," insisted Newt, pressing the back of his hand to her flushed cheek.  "I'm sure of it."  
  
"I'm sure you're dreaming," Anathema said, pushing his hand away.  She rolled over and buried her face in the pillows, arms folded across her middle.  "Urgh."  
  
"I'll pick up some aspirin.  I'll call in sick.  You're not staying here alone."  
  
"No," she said, resisting the urge to laugh.  "I'm not."  
  
Newt froze, his hand clenched on her shoulder.  
  
Half an hour later, Anathema called in sick _for_ him.  
  
  


**XXXI.**

  
  
  
For about seven months, the world had been getting along rather well, or so Aziraphale thought.  When the sensible cream-colored envelope with silver gilt edging arrived, he smiled and opened it immediately.  Anathema's invitations never wanted for taste.  
  
"Oh," said Aziraphale, scanning the matching card.  "Oh _my_."  
  
"That," Crowley said, strolling in from the back room with a teacup cradled to his chest, "can only mean one thing.  Who died?"  
  
Aziraphale held out the card.  
  
Crowley sipped the tea, his brow furrowing.  
  
"Let's hope they don't go with a family name," he said.  
  
  


**XXX.**

  
  
  
In the ninth pathetic month of human time, on a dark and impressively stormy night, Beelzebub followed the Metatron, just as he had done every other night, and stopped it.  
  
"Give me one reason," hissed the Metatron, unfurling wings of golden flame, "why I shouldn't send you back to the Darkness from whence you came."  
  
"Gamezz," Beelzebub sighed, flickering slightly.  "Alwayzz gamezz to you and yourzz, izzn't it?"  
  
"Go away," said the Metatron miserably, turning its back.  The wind howled.  
  
"No," replied Beelzebub, stepping around in front.  "I'm afraid I muzzn't.  Will you lizzten?  I bring you a mezzage from my Mazzter.  He wishezz…an audienzz with your mozzt willing party, if you underzztand my meaning."  
  
The Metatron lifted its head, the empty eyes brilliant with rain and amazement.  
  
"Yes," it said, licking its golden lips.  "I believe I do."  
  
  


**XXIX.**

  
  
  
Sometimes, Matilda felt like the years were going a lot faster than they should.  She even missed getting dunked underwater by her sister Pepper and those three creeps she'd been hanging around with ever since she could remember.  Adam, the blond one, wasn't so bad, though, because he'd grown up to be kind of cute.  
  
Matilda told this to Sophia Pulsifer, who was five years old and didn't know what that meant, so her secret was safe.  Sophia shrugged and bounced the twins, who were two, in her lap.  Matilda took Natalie, who was less fussy than Janet, so that Sophia wouldn't drop both of them.  
  
"She'll cry," Sophia said stubbornly, settling Janet more firmly in her lap.  The baby played with a piece of Sophia's long hair and stuck it in her mouth.  
  
"No, she won't," said Matilda, grinning in spite of herself.  Sophia was protective of her sisters, and before Matilda had started babysitting, Anathema had warned her about that.  
  
"Give her back," said Sophia, "or I'll tell Adam."  
  
Matilda sighed, handing Natalie over.  It was almost the weekend, and Pepper always came home from university.  Her kid-dunking friends were never far behind, either.  
  
  


**XXVIII.**

  
  
  
He died peacefully, said the doctors, in his sleep.  
  
"There was never a finer man," Madame Tracy insisted stoutly, firmly pressing a clean, tobacco-stained handkerchief to her lips.  "I assure you there wasn't!"  
  
The funeral was modest, attended by a small handful of people who the funeral director would have discovered, had he checked the guest book, lived either in London or within a ten-mile radius of each other.  Newt tucked a pin deep into the casket's satin lining, then held up Sophia so that she could tuck a lily in beside Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (deceased).   
  
"Such a pretty child," Madame Tracy whispered tearfully to Aziraphale.  "She has her mother's eyes.  And those sisters of hers, good _heavens_ , they've grown."  
  
"They'll be needing some looking after, I'm sure," Aziraphale said respectfully.  
  
"That redhead and _her_ sister are awfully good with them," said Madame Tracy fondly, dabbing her eyes.  "And _my_ , that Adam lad has grown."  
  
"I think she's missed the point," Crowley hissed, leaning over, in Aziraphale's ear.  
  
"That cottage of yours would fetch a pretty penny," Aziraphale said consolingly, glaring briefly at Crowley, "and I'm sure real estate is much more reasonable in the, er, greater Tadfield area."  
  
Crowley winced, patting the back of Aziraphale's hand.  
  
Watching Sophia cling to her father's shoulders, Madame Tracy smiled.  
  
"I don't think I could bear to part with the cottage, though."  
  
  


**XXVII.**

  
  
  
"It's so sad," Pepper murmured, staring up at the stars.  The wind skimmed across the high grass, sweeping it over and around them.  She heard Adam sigh.  
  
"Yes, it is," he said, sounding sleepy and resigned.  "But he was old, Pep."  
  
Pepper rolled over and stared him in the face.  For being at Cambridge and Oxford respectively, they were really bloody stupid sometimes, and she wanted him to know that, or maybe just to punch him.  
  
"You don't want that," Adam said, still calm, and she saw that his eyes were red.  
  
"What do I want, then?" asked Pepper, defiant.  They were so close she could smell his breath, and it was sweet and warm and strange all at once.  She waited.  
  
Adam rolled over to face her, settling so that they were nose to nose.  
  
"I don't know," Adam said honestly.  
  
"Oh, right," Pepper muttered.  "This _one_ time, you conveniently _don't_ —"  
  
When Adam kissed her, it tasted like the wind across the grass and felt like an ache in her belly, but when he held her, the ache faded to brightness and the sky turned to morning.  
  
  


**XXVI.**

  
  
  
The seventh year of the rest of the world was waning, and they had a problem on their hands.  It had hurtled through Hell as a gale-force wind, stunning Lucifer from sleep.  They must meet again, he had thought, and soon.  As before, they chose neutral ground.  
  
"Let's keep it brief," Michael said, curt as ever, hovering at the edge of the Waste.  The old hate was bright in his gaze, steady.  His hand hovered warily at his sword.  
  
"My son," said Lucifer, spitting the words, "has taken a consort."  
  
Michael blanched.  
  
"He mustn't sire an heir.  We haven't the time to divert—he _mustn't_ —"  
  
"No," Lucifer agreed, drawing closer.  "He mustn't.  He must be alone, in the End, when we take him.  He'll have his army, of course, but she must _not_ bear him a son.  Duke Hastur?"  
  
"My Lord," oozed the tall demon, emerging from the shadows behind him.  
  
Michael's eyes, wild as the sea, narrowed.  
  
"Your sword," said Lucifer softly, then more gently, " _please_."  
  
"Very well," said Michael, reluctantly offering it.  
  
Shuddering, Hastur grabbed the weapon, hefted it, and fled.  
  
  


**XXV.**

  
  
  
After she had been three days missing, they found Pepper lying in a field.  Her fiery shoulder-length hair (painstakingly grown in from a drastic cutting) was loose and matted with grass, and the wound in her chest was so deep that the ground beneath her had pooled with the blood that drained from her back.  
  
Adam bent low and closed her eyes with his fingertips, hardly hearing his father's voice telling him to stay put, he'd run back and tell them they'd found her, he'd get the police.  
  
Once he was alone, Adam rose and said, "You must come now."  
  
The air before him rippled, and Aziraphale stood there watching, silent.  
  
"Both of you," Adam said, unable to keep his voice from turning harsh.  
  
Crowley hovered beside the angel, wide-eyed behind his sunglasses.  
  
"I don't need to ask you who did this."  
  
"No," Aziraphale agreed, his voice scarcely above a whisper.  
  
"I don't need to ask you what this means."  
  
"No," Crowley said grimly, looking away.  
  
"You must come now," Adam repeated.  "Now, _go_."  
  
He watched them exchange frightened glances as they faded, then knelt again and kissed the faint smile that Death had fixed on Pepper's frozen lips.  
  
  


**XXIV.**

  
  
  
Real estate was, in fact, _quite_ reasonable in the greater Tadfield area.  
  
"I don't know why I bothered with such _atrocious_ rent for all those centuries," Aziraphale said, settling the last box of books down on the dusty wooden floor of his new shop.  "It's rather charming, don't you think?"  
  
Crowley was staring dismally out the front window at the main street.  
  
"I've counted two cars in the past hour," he said matter-of-factly.  " _Two_."  
  
"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale, brushing off his hands.  "You're too hard on them.  Have I mentioned the flat upstairs is lovely?"  
  
"My furniture won't fit," snapped Crowley, turning to face him.  
  
"Now, I don't know about _that_ ," Aziraphale said reassuringly, reaching out to squeeze Crowley's hand.  It felt cold, and Crowley was shaking ever so slightly.  
  
"We're in loads of trouble, you know," Crowley said, squeezing back.  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale sighed, staring out the window.  _Because you were right_.  
  
  


**XXIII.**

  
  
  
After finishing his degree, Wensleydale returned from London.  Nobody there called him Wensleydale, of course, but at home in Lower Tadfield, he was Wensleydale, and _welcome_.  Adam and Brian collected him at the station.  
  
"Cor," said Brian, hitting every bump in the road at a speed that was higher than necessary.  "I've got _two_ bloody geniuses now. What'm I supposed to do with you, eh, put you to work in the shop because London wouldn't have you?"  
  
"No," Adam said, flipping through the final project folder that Wensleydale had handed him from the back seat.  "Seems to me that, between the three of us, we've got a variety of skills.  We ought to go into business for ourselves."  
  
"What _kind_ of business?" Wensleydale asked uncertainly.  In the rear-view mirror, Adam's eyes peered back at him, clearer and graver than ever.  
  
"Web design, for one," said Adam, "though it's got to be a cover for something else."  
  
Wensleydale felt the same faint prickle of warning that he'd felt when they told him Pepper was dead.  He leaned on the car door and looked out the window, watching the fields pass.  He had the distinct feeling he'd been left out of something.  
  
"Recruiting," Brian said.  "It's not so bad, and you meet the strangest people."  
  
  


**XXII.**

  
  
  
The long-abandoned storefronts had been filling fast, it seemed: first Madame Tracy's antique shop and tea parlor with its discreet back room, followed shortly after by Mr. Fell's book shop, which didn't have a name or particularly need one.  When a middle-aged doctor and his wife (their children had long moved on, they said) moved into one of the last remaining spaces, they were most welcome.  Tadfield had suffered a dearth of physicians ever since the burning of the Manor.  
  
Aziraphale had, of course, insisted on taking them a house-warming basket.  
  
"Oh, _hello_ ," said the dark-haired woman at the door, her plain features alight with a breathtaking smile.  "It's wonderful to finally meet you.  I've been warned."  
  
The gentle humor in her voice made Crowley shrink back against the doorframe, where he bumped into a plain silver mezuzah.  It fell with a clatter, and before he could mutter an apology, Aziraphale had already collected it from the floor.  Carefully, the angel brushed it off and replaced it.  
  
"I'm dreadfully sorry, dear lady," he sighed.  "This is, er—my—Crowley."  
  
"Your Crowley," said the woman, still smiling, "is welcome here, too."  
  
Crowley thanked her under his breath, stepping closer to Aziraphale.  
  
"Miriam, what's the trouble?" called a man's voice from inside, possibly upstairs.  
  
"None!" she cried over her shoulder.  "Visitors.  Old acquaintances of yours."  
  
"Ah, yes," said the voice as it got closer, and soon a pleasant, homely, vaguely familiar face loomed over Miriam's shoulder, dark eyes delighted.  "Where have you _been_?"  
  
"Unpacking," Aziraphale said, put-upon.  "You'd be amazed at how long it takes."  
  
"No, I wouldn't," said Miriam, wryly, and patted her husband on the arm.  "Ten minutes, Joshua.  You've left the pasta boiling."  
  
Joshua rolled his eyes when she had gone, then shook Aziraphale's hand.  
  
"I never had the chance to thank you," he said, then glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder.  "Or you."  
  
"It's nothing, I assure you," said Aziraphale warmly.  "All in the line of duty."  
  
Crowley tried on his politest grin, annoyed that he'd have to get used to this.  
  
"Of course," he said conversationally.  "How's Nazareth these days, anyway?"  
  
  


**XXI.**

  
  
  
The sign in the front window of the office was merely a formality.  On her way in, Uriel took it down, folding it neatly in half.  Miriam looked up from the small desk and smiled at her, extending one slim, neatly manicured hand to take the sign.  
  
"We're blessed these days," she said, "to have such company."  
  
Uriel ran her fingers through her short hair and scanned her surroundings.  There were dull landscape prints on the walls, a cactus in one corner of the waiting room, and a ficus in the other.  The close-cropped carpet was dark blue and smelled faintly new.  
  
"I'm blessed to be here," she said absently, then set her shoulder bag down on the desk.  "When should I start?  Have you acquired many patients?"  
  
"Now," Miriam replied, shuffling papers.  "The Pulsifer twins are in and out for scrapes and ear-aches, and Mrs. Young is due in for a consultation on her arthritis.  She can't seem to convince her husband he needs a check-up, but she booked the appointment anyway."  She stood up with an apologetic smile.  "Everything's on file."  
  
"That's my middle name," Uriel sighed, and sat down.  She stared at the photographs on the desk and wondered how many ghosts she might find amongst the living.  
  
  


**XX.**

  
  
  
They had retreated to the highest towers of Heaven and the lowest dungeons of Hell, and their ranks had both grown and diminished.  Some had refused and fallen, glittering like stars, to Earth.  Gabriel sighed as he watched another pair leave.  They usually left in twos and threes.  Michael made a noise of disgust and turned from the window.  
  
"They'll be outnumbered in the End," he said, confident.  
  
"Almost surely," Gabriel agreed, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.  There were demons in Heaven, mingling with angels in the streets.  He had seen angels in Hell, too, conversing with demons, their wings spread and eyes alight.  It was a time of wonder.  
  
"There is to be another meeting," Michael said.  "Will you come?  Their forces, too, are gathering.  They've found help in unexpected quarters, and we must discourage further defection."  
  
"Must we?" asked Gabriel, turning from the window, the knot in his chest growing tighter.  "As I understand it, they have free choice in the matter."  
  
"Yes," Michael said, frowning, "but there's such a thing as too much choice."  
  
Gabriel said nothing.  He had feared this from the start.  
  
"Come," Michael said, turning.  "We'll be late."  
  
"I think I'll stay," Gabriel said, turning back to the window, sickened.  
  


  
  
What he felt, or what he remembered, was not so much the sword in his side as it was the sensation of being lifted, tilted, and given to the wind, airborne in a wash of amethyst and rose.  
  
  


**XIX.**

  
  
  
When the door banged shut, the mezuzah fell down again.  Uriel sighed and tousled her hair some more, not bothering to look up from her paperwork.  She'd get it later.  
  
"Darling, _what_ have you done to your highlights?"  
  
Uriel looked up, blinked, and stared.  Raphael leaned heavily on a cane, and his top hat appeared to be somewhat crushed.  The makeshift bandages on his left ankle clashed horribly with his torn stockings and single high-heeled boot.  There was blood on his torn frock coat, but he wore makeup and the same dashing smile as he had worn in Athens—and Beijing, and Machu Picchu.  
  
"I'm growing them out," said Uriel, trying to keep a straight face, but the tears and the laughter came anyway.  She ran from the desk and embraced him, sighing.  
  
"No, hush, none of that," Raphael said stoutly.  "You'll ruin my mascara."  
  
"Your bloody mascara," Uriel whispered, tasting the faint accent she'd acquired.  "I'll sign you in."  
  
"Charming," Raphael said, finding his balance again.  "And what's this I hear about a kitschy little shop across the street, hmmm?"  
  
"Madame Tracy will love you," Uriel said, handing him a clipboard.  
  
  


**XVIII.**

  
  
  
On Sophia's fifteenth birthday, her parents threw her a small, cozy party at which Mr. Fell shocked everybody with his knowledge of old-fashioned stage magic.  The twins got in a fight over who got to keep the duck-egg-blue silk handkerchief, and some of the lace got torn off.  Mr. Crowley amazed everybody with his apparent sewing skills, and all was resolved when a second handkerchief of the same make got pulled from Sophia's ear.  
  
Matilda had helped Anathema to make a cake in the shape of a clock.  Sophia had a strange fondness for clocks, and she'd amassed a collection of miniature antique wind-ups, most of which had been purchased in Madame Tracy's shop.  The new hired help had been particularly gracious, and Anathema had been covertly jealous of his legs.  
  
"Make a wish, honey," said Newt, lighting the last candle.  
  
Across the table, Matilda made a face.  Sophia tried not to laugh.  
  
"What if I don't have one?" she asked.  
  
"I'm sure you'll think of something," said Adam Young, arms folded across his chest.  He was standing beside Matilda, wearing an old red t-shirt.  With the candlelight in his eyes, he looked like one of the gods in her mother's bedtime stories.  
  
"Maybe," said Sophia, and blew out the candles in two breaths.  
  
She should have wanted the world to be well, but her only thought was that if Adam Young ever asked Matilda out, she'd lock herself in her room and never come out again.  
  
  


**XVII.**

  
  
  
A month later, half an hour after Mr. Young left to drive Wensleydale home, Adam dashed into the kitchen of the flat he shared with Brian, breathless.  He picked up the phone, stared at the floor for a few seconds, nodding at what the voice on the other end was telling him.  It was one of the new commanders at the airbase, of which there had, in recent years, been many.  He'd been in direct communication ever since the arrivals and transfers began.  What nobody realized was that the American military was gone.  
  
"My lord," said the voice, quietly, "we could not reach them in time."  
  
"I see," Adam said, clutching the phone so that it wouldn't slip from his grasp.  
  
"The police have arrived," said the angel.  "We've called your mother.  It's all we could do."  
  
"I understand," Adam said, his jaw tightening.  His vision was beginning to swim, but it _must not_.  He steeled himself and cleared his throat.  "They're both dead, then?"  
  
"I'm sorry," murmured the angel, her voice the sound of purest loss.  
  
Wensleydale's parents buried him beside his grandfather, who had loved him dearly in childhood.  His family's plot was not far from Pepper's family's, which put Adam at ease.  
  
Mr. Young was buried alone, as his parents hadn't been from Tadfield.  For the first time, Adam looked at the priest and didn't see Old Picky.  He saw a man tired of loss, who would likely outlive them all and fall amongst the ranks at the last.  
  
He'd read something like that in a poem once, at Oxford, years ago.  
  
  


**XVI.**

  
  
  
Crowley drove up to the main gate, then killed the Bentley's ignition.  Unlike years ago, things went a lot more smoothly if you just left your transport behind and proceeded on foot.  He opened Aziraphale's door and held it for him, squinting at the guard booth.  He knew the demon by sight, of course, though he was wretched with names.  
  
"You're cleared," said the demon, over the intercom.  "We know you."  
  
"Is that the kind of training they get nowadays?" Aziraphale asked, vaguely appalled, as the gate rose before them with a series of metallic clinks and an elderly, suspicious whirring.  
  
"Dire straits," Crowley said, taking him by the arm.  "Come on."  
  
While the guard at the gate wore a sort of nondescript uniform, the host assembled inside didn't seem to adhere to any particular dress code.  Crowley preferred to stay away, because he usually ended up recognizing somebody or _getting_ recognized, and trying to explain what had happened Up Here for the past six millennia and change was, well, tiring.  And some of them didn't approve of romantic entanglements.  Too risky, they said.  Crowley usually told them to bugger off, and went about his duties with Aziraphale.  They hadn't lost any recently, but they hadn't gained any, either.  
  
"The Beaurocracy isn't taking this well," Aziraphale whispered some time later, giving a dark-haired, woman-shaped angel leave to return to her post.  "They'll kill more humans if they can.  More of _our_ humans.  We've got to protect them."  
  
"Yeah," Crowley said, "and meanwhile, the rest of the world just suffers."  
  
"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, wincing.  "Crowley, really, I admire your—"  
  
"Shut up," said Crowley, tersely, and gave him a brief, fierce kiss.  
  
  


**XV.**

  
  
  
The back room of Madame Tracy's shop wasn't, strictly speaking, just a tea room, but she hadn't attracted many massage clients on account of the doctor's wife being a trained massage therapist.  It was all right.  Madame Tracy's hands had been acting up for a long time now, and people had always liked her tea better than her massage, anyway.  
  
"Where do you get this?" Uriel asked, blinking into her teacup, amazed.  
  
"London, love," said Madame Tracy.  "That handsome boy of Mr. Fell's made the trip in special."  
  
"Too _nervous_ ," Raphael said, clicking his tongue as he set his cup and saucer down on the table between the three of them.  He was careful not to unsettle the crystal ball.  "Tasty, _definitely_ tasty, but he mustn't hide those eyes of his.  Tsk."  
  
Uriel threw her napkin at him.  
  
"I'm surprised nobody's run you out of town."  
  
"I'd'ae dunnit nigh on a _yeer_ ago, just see if I wouldn'ae!"  
  
"Nobody asked you," Uriel said, setting her cup on the edge of the table.  
  
"Mister _S_ ," scolded Madame Tracy, finding her mouth unexpectedly full of biscuit.  "That's no way to talk to friends.  You had better apologize, now."  
  
"Hmph," said Shadwell, unseen, and stumped out noisily, rattling the teacups.  
  
"Was it something I said?" Raphael asked, crossing his legs devilishly.  
  
"Yow canne be sure of that," said a voice from the empty chair beside Uriel, and picked up its teacup with sure-handed precision.  "He needf alle the shockf he canne get."  
  
  


**XIV.**

  
  
  
"I dunt get it," said Ligur, contemplatively picking his nose.  "What're we _waitin_ ' for?"  
  
"Something," Hastur snapped, shuffling the cards a tenth time.  "Now, I _asked_ you, Bridge or Rummy?"  
  
"We need more for Bridge," Ligur pointed out, happy with what he'd found.  He'd been wondering where that had got off to.  "Unless you want to invite some an—um.  Other fellows.  You know.  _Them_."  
  
Hastur fumed.  
  
"What?" Ligur blurted.  "They're too polite to call you on cheatin'!"  
  
  


**XIII.**

  
  
  
The Blue Goose prided itself on the fact that it had been steadily in business since 1602.  The residents of Lower Tadfield, even the younger generation, were proud, too.  So were the town's newest residents, who were not quite so new anymore.  Also, most of them just wanted a good pint or a glass of decent wine, what with the horrible news these days.  
  
"Yo, Soph!" shouted Matilda.  "You got that Blackthorn for the gent?"  
  
"No!" Sophia shouted back, hastily drying a pair of glasses.  "It's your order!  I've got my own here!"  She filled the glasses—one with merlot, the other with Riesling—and carried them over to the middle counter.  "Sorry 'bout the drip, Mr. Fell," she said hastily, handing him a napkin.  She set the Riesling in front of Mr. Crowley, for whom she had a curious fondness.  She'd never met anybody who could make cynicism _fashionable_.  
  
"Thanksss," he said.  The hissing generally meant he was drunk.  
  
"No more," she said, then gave Mr. Fell a worried look.  
  
"Don't worry, my dear," he said, smiling, and pressed some coins into her hand.  
  
"Soph!  I can't get the bloody Blackthorn, this thing's _burning_!"  
  
"You're a rotten cook," Sophia grumbled, grabbing a glass and bearing down hard on the Blackthorn tap.  "I hope you're going to refund the poor bloke who's got to eat that."  
  
"That's all right," said Adam Young, waving at her.  "That's mine, too, thanks."  
  
Sophia almost dropped the glass.  She hadn't known he was there.  She'd been too busy trying to keep Mr. Crowley on track with his story (he told stories as good as her mother's, and so did Mr. Fell) about a tree and a serpent, but he kept getting derailed and going on about dolphins and how he thought they'd sorted this out once already.  
  
"Hallo," she said, trying to keep her hands steady.  She walked over and set the glass down in front of Adam, unsure of whether she should smile or run away.  The party had been nearly three years ago, and she'd seen Adam since, and sometimes spoke to him.  
  
"Thanks," he said, smiling as carefully as Sophia felt she should, then added in a low voice, "Pep couldn't cook worth a damn either, you know."  
  
Sophia felt her heart clench.  Numbly, she shook her head.  
  
Adam's eyes dropped to the bar.  
  
"Sorry, shouldn't talk about that.  Matilda's been upset, hasn't she?"  
  
"Yes," Sophia said, frozen.  She wanted to turn away, but she couldn't.  Adam's blue eyes were catching the light of the lamps, refracting it into a myriad stars in his gaze.  "She's very fond of you," she added softly.  
  
"I can't imagine why," Adam said, his smile twisting wryly.  "I was mean to her when she was a kid."  
  
"She forgives you," Sophia said, realizing that her fingers were knotted so tightly in her apron that she could only feel a tingling.  "I know it.  _You_ were just a kid, too."  
  
Something strange happened then, the briefest, most terrifying hardening of Adam's features before they relaxed again.  He took a sip of the cider and sighed.  
  
"I guess," he said, and for the first time, Sophia realized he must be nearly thirty.  
  
"You're too hard on yourself," she said, kicking herself for the triteness of it.  
  
"You," Adam said, with something like tired fondness in his voice, "are wise."  
  
Later that night, after her shift ended, Adam walked her home.  Under the stars, they talked and laughed.  When Sophia tried to retell Mr. Crowley's story, she found that she had forgotten it.  Adam said that it was all right, really, and took her hand as if frightened.  
  
  


**XII.**

  
  
  
Mrs. Young didn't hear much from Sarah these days, as the girl had been married and living in Glasgow for a good ten years.  When the letter came, she was glad of it.  Adam spent little time at home, and the house, once warm and occupied, had grown steadily colder.  
  
 _Charles sends his best regards_ , Sarah wrote.  _And I am still unable to conceive, despite our best efforts_.  _Mom, it's almost better this way_.  _I wouldn't have wanted Dad to miss a thing_.  _Besides, there's still Adam_.  
  
 _Yes_ , thought Mrs. Young, carefully re-folding the letter.  There was still Adam, whose only love, as far as she knew, had died, as all the others had died, of an act as senseless as any accident.  They had never identified a suspect, never made an arrest.  
  
 _My dear Sarah_ , wrote Mrs. Young, _I think the world is finally ending_.  
  
  


XI.

  
  
  
Their flat was small, but they had always lived in small spaces, and those spaces had been holy.  Wakeful, Miriam slipped from under the heavy covers and walked to the window. The street below was silent, though there was a light in Madame Tracy's second-story window.  The archangels rarely slept, and Madame Tracy could sleep through anything.  
  
"Are you all right?" asked Joshua, his soft voice filling the room.  The phrase in their old language seemed stilted somehow, strange, an exotic thing.  "Miriam?"  
  
"They don't sleep," she murmured.  "None of them.  I can see the lights of the place where the soldiers are.  They don't sleep, either.  They're working."  
  
"There is much left to be done," Joshua agreed.  "Come here, love."  
  
"No," she said.  "Wait.  The book-seller's window, it's dark."  
  
"They don't sleep, either," said Joshua, softly, and held the covers back.  
  
Sighing, Miriam returned to bed.  They had healed many, but others soon would be beyond saving.  She could not think of that time, not yet, but she _could not forget_.  
  
  


X.

  
  
  
On the worst nights, Crowley was too restless for sleep.  Sometimes, it sufficed to hold him, but most times, Aziraphale quieted him with kisses that, before long, deepened and lengthened into touch.  Crowley held on as if, despite the way the lines had shifted, he still feared for his existence, or perhaps for all of life.  They slept very little.  
  
"Look," Crowley whispered, exhausted, his mouth crushed against Aziraphale's shoulder, "I want you to know…"  
  
"My dear," Aziraphale sighed, cradling him, "I _do_."  
  
And they were silent again, wrapped up in each other and in uncertainty, except there was a star that morning, or something like a star, that washed out the darkness before dawn.  
  
  


**IX.**

  
  
  
Three months ago, Adam thought, might as well be an eternity.  That night at the Goose had heralded the first true warmth of summer, had been the first clear evening after several weeks of rain.  Now, in high August, it seemed there was nothing but draught.  
  
"Happy Birthday," Sophia murmured sleepily, turning in Adam's embrace.  She rested her cheek against his chest, pale and peaceful in the fading twilight.  She touched his hand briefly, then closed it in her own.  "You're practically an old man," she whispered, teasing.  "Thirty-one.  Whew.  I swear, Dad's going to have—ahaha _hey_ —"  
  
"It's not your father," Adam said, tickling her harder, "that I'm worried about.  It's your mother.  She'll have a fit if you don't start university this autumn."  
  
Sophia got her laughter under control, then rolled away from him, taking half of the grass-strewn blankets with her.  She propped herself up on her elbows, suddenly serious.  
  
"The world's ending, you know," she said.  
  
Adam returned her steady gaze, stuck between panic and relief.  
  
"What makes you say that?" he asked.  
  
"A lot of things," Sophia admitted, staring at her fingers.  "It's mostly just a hunch."  
  
"Promise me something?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't be afraid," Adam said, reaching for her.  "Don't _ever_ be afraid."  
  
Sophia settled in his arms again, holding him close.  
  
"How could I be?" she murmured, and closed her eyes.  
  
Adam closed his eyes, too, and hoped his mother would forgive them for being late to his birthday breakfast.  They'd been up more than half the night.  Long after Sophia had fallen asleep, Adam's tears lingered in her hair, brighter than the star-washed morning.  
  
  


**XIII.**

  
  
  
Swifter than a shadow, Hastur stole away across the field.  
  
"He has taken the girl, my lord," he said, bent low before his masters.  
  
For a split second, Lucifer knew true terror, but Michael's expression was one of slow, distant contemplation.  After a few moments, the archangel lowered his eyes to Hastur and smiled.  It was a cold, careful smile, and no one had ever worn it better.  
  
"Shall I kill her?" Hastur asked, lifting his head, eyes blood-mad.  "Say the word, and she is gone."  
  
Lucifer began to speak, but Michael raised a hand, silencing him.  
  
"No," said the archangel.  "She must bear his son.  It is Written."   
  
"But it worked so well on the first one," Hastur pointed out, hungrily eyeing Michael's sword.  
  
Suddenly, Lucifer understood.  He took Michael's hand, twining their fingers.  
  
"We will have our chance," he reassured Hastur, "at the birth of the child."  
  
  


**VII.**

  
  
  
Madame Tracy had always dreamed of wearing flowers on her wedding day, but her first marriage had been in the dead of winter, and her last had been a small, quiet civil ceremony with three willing (and one not-so-willing) witnesses.  The wreath in her hands was as lovely as the April afternoon, all lilies and daisies and violets.  She had taken special care with the lilies as she wove it, remembering how that single white flower had looked in the child's hand.  
  
"Hurry up!" Matilda shouted at Sophia's bedroom door.  "You're going to be late."  
  
"Am not," said the bride, bursting into the hallway.  Natalie, who had the train of her dress, could hardly keep up.  She dropped the fabric and sagged against the doorframe.  "Nat, would you tell Mom to stop fussing with the veil?  It's pointless."  
  
"No," said Natalie, sulking, and tugged the strap of her lavender gown back up onto her shoulder.  "Where's Janet?"  
  
"Downstairs with your father, love," said Madame Tracy.  "Why don't you run along?"  
  
Natalie dashed down the stairs, fairly tripping in her relief to get away.  
  
"How is it?" Sophia asked uncertainly, twirling once in front of Madame Tracy.  "Too long?  You've done a marvelous job on the embroidery, you know.  It's absolutely…"  
  
"Fine, dear," said Madame Tracy, and set the pale, sweet blossoms in her hair.  
  
  


**VI.**

  
  
  
Sometimes, Crowley just wished that they'd all go away.  He turned the page of the _Times_ , not really reading, and listened to the conversation in the front of the shop.  The archangels were the worst of the lot, chatty and nosy the both of them.  
  
"I'm not sure why that is," Uriel was saying, her voice hushed, and there was the sound of ancient pages being carefully turned.  "I mean, one word's difference and you're _fucked_ —"  
  
"Language," Raphael said sharply.  "There are _ladies_ present."  
  
"Oh, really?  I don't see any."  
  
"Well, I don't know about _that_ ," Aziraphale said, which was enough to make Crowley drop the newspaper in shock, because since when did Principalities _banter_?  
  
"That poor chap lurking back there," Raphael said in the kind of voice that he might use to blow cigarette smoke, laughing delightedly, "is too hard on you, darling."  
  
Crowley stood up so fast that his chair tipped back and hit the floor.  
  
"You're such an oaf," Uriel said to Raphael, and raced into the back room.  She stared at Crowley, as if surprised to find him upright, and asked, "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Crowley said, all dignity lost, and righted the chair.  
  
"Ignore him," she said, folding her arms across her chest.  "You're better than that, which I'm sure he can't stand.  You also have a love life."  
  
"Um," said Crowley, whose breast pocket had just begun to ring very loudly.  
  
"Are you going to get that, or shall I get it for you?" Raphael called from the front.  
  
"Youbloodybastar—hal _lo_ ," Crowley said pleasantly, bringing the phone up to his ear.  
  
"There's a problem," Miriam said, quiet and certain. "I'm sorry to bother you, but—"  
  
Crowley was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that Aziraphale and Raphael had crowded behind Uriel in the doorway, and all three of them were staring at him with nearly identical looks of angelic panic.  He might as well have had on the speaker.   
  
"—Sophia," Miriam was saying, then paused, sighing.  "Crowley, are you listening?"  
  
"What?  Yes," he said, dragging his attention back to the phone.  "Absolutely.  Sophia?"  
  
"She's expecting," Miriam said, and Crowley realized she was struggling to keep her voice even.  "It's too soon to know, of course, whether it's a son or a daughter, but…"  
  
"Understood," Crowley said.  "Thank you."  
  
Uriel was chewing her lip, eyes fixed on the floor.  
  
"I had better get back to work, hadn't I?"  
  
"Yeah," Crowley said, locking gazes with Aziraphale.  "That might be for the best."  
  
Raphael was bent over the counter, silent for once, fingering the old bible with regret.  
  
  


**V.**

  
  
  
The attack was swift and badly executed, and two Resistance fighters whose loyalties had been under suspicion from the start—that is, the assailants—were the only casualties. From the back yard, Dog barked and howled, disconsolate.  
  
"The house isn't safe," Adam said, his voice empty, staring at the black sky.  Sophia hovered behind him, her bare, slender arms wrapped around her elbows.  "Even under guard, it's not…"  
  
"They were killed," Aziraphale repeated for the third time, placing a hand on Adam's shoulder.  "Tanith's an excellent marksm—er.  They didn't reach—"  
  
"That," Adam breathed, furious, "is _not_ good enough."  
  
"Fine, then," Crowley said, taking off his sunglasses in order to rub the bridge of his nose, glaring pointedly.  "We'll have to hide her."  He looked straight at Sophia, who did not shrink from his gaze.  She stood still behind Adam, barefoot on the grass, defiant.  
  
"I fear," Aziraphale said, "that may be the only alternative."  
  
Not far from the front steps, two bodies lay sprawled on the earth, the two pairs of wings identical and bloodstained.  Each had taken a shot to the front at deadly close range. In the shadows of the front porch, Tanith hovered warily, her snake-eyes glittering regret.  
  
  


**IV.**

  
  
  
On the worst nights, Newt couldn't sleep at all, not even after Anathema had made him a sleeping draught.  Some nights, the twins took turns sitting up with him, playing chess or watching television with him.  The weekly letters from Shangri-La rarely seemed to comfort him, no matter how profuse the reassurance from Madame Tracy and Uriel.  
  
"She's well, Dad," whispered Janet, shielding the flame of her candle as she stepped out into the darkness to stand beside him.  "I've dreamt it.  The baby's well inside her, growing.  A grandson, Dad.  She's carrying your grandson."  
  
"Your mother," Newt murmured, folding his hands around his daughter's, "needs you worse than I do."  
  
Janet's breath caught in her throat and fluttered there, wings trapped in a cage.  
  
"Nat's with her," she said, her voice breaking.  " _Dad_ —"  
  
As they clung to each other, the candle guttered in the wind, then blazed.  
  
  


**III.**

  
  
  
Crowley had taken to standing at the window, staring for long hours at the darkness.  Often, Aziraphale joined him, but more and more, he found that he needed to rest in order to keep up his strength.  Crowley always returned to bed at dawn, as if the lifting of the darkness meant that his vigil was no longer needed.  Some days, he slept until dusk.  
  
That night, unable to sleep, Aziraphale asked, "What do you see?"  
  
"Lights," Crowley sighed, as if dreaming.  "Dozens and hundreds.  Could go out in a blink."  
  
"You're very tired," Aziraphale said, trying to sound reasonable.  He took hold of Crowley's shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.  "My dear, _surely_ —"  
  
"They might," Crowley insisted, taking hold of Aziraphale's hands so hard that it hurt, "go out."  
  
  


**II.**

  
  
  
When a knock came at the door, Uriel flew to answer it.  Outside, the night was heavy and humid, and Raphael stood on the doorstep.  For the first time in centuries, he looked thin and worn down, and he was wearing, much to Uriel's dismay, trousers.  
  
"Business isn't treating you well?"  
  
"Very funny," said Raphael, sitting down on the edge of the porch.  "There's no time for chit-chat, darling.  I'm here _on_ business."  
  
Uriel caught her breath, then swept up her skirts and sat down beside him.  
  
"Then what—"  
  
"Does the child stir often?"  
  
"Yes," Uriel sighed.  "He kicks all day long.  Sophia doesn't walk much.  It's tiring."  
  
Raphael nodded, staring briefly at the overgrown flowerbed.  
  
"Is the time close?"  
  
"No more than a month," Uriel whispered, letting go of the fear that she dared not show, not even to Madame Tracy.  "She can't stay here.  When the Battle begins, they'll send someone, perhaps a whole army.  They'll kill me first, and then they'll kill her guardian, and after—"  
  
Raphael held her until her tears passed, then said, "Darling, _listen_."  
  
"I'm listening," said Uriel, mopping her eyes on Raphael's sleeve.  
  
"You're to leave here, all of you, tonight."  
  
"And go where?"  
  
"With me," said Raphael, helping her to her feet.  "I'm taking you home."  
  
  


**I.**

  
  
  
The last day of the rest of the world was a quiet, hot August afternoon just like any other, except that the sky was so dark as to be early evening.  The gates of the airbase clanked open, letting a plain, white delivery truck exit before clanking shut again.  In what had come to look curiously like a courtyard, complete with a functioning fountain, there was a small, somber group assembled.  
  
Adam brushed the dust off the top of the cardboard box, slicing the Sellotape with a knife that he'd borrowed from Brian.  He pulled the flaps open with a sickening crack.  From her perch on the edge of the fountain, flanked by Uriel and Madame Tracy, Sophia leaned forward, her face flushed, trying to peer inside. Dog crouched at her feet, mismatched ears on alert, rumbling a low growl at any being that moved too near.  
  
"That's never good," Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale gestured him silent.  
  
Gingerly, Adam lifted something glittering to the sunlight.  
  
"Cor," Brian muttered under his breath.  "Wasn't it all tarnished?"  
  
"Yeah," said Adam simply, and turned the crown over in his hands.  Clean again, the twelve clear stones winked and shone like stars in the dim sunlight.  "Not anymore."  
  
"What are you supposed to _do_ with it?" Brian asked.  
  
"This, I think," Adam said with a pained expression, and set the crown on Sophia's head.  
  
At the first clap of thunder, she screamed.  
  
"No," said Uriel, urgently, staring blindly at the sky.  "Not—"  
  
"Hurry," Brian whispered, grabbing the box and holding it up.  From shadows and doorways, others stood watching—friends and family, allies and soldiers.  Raphael stood poised at the gate, eyes narrowed, watching.  He'd found a new hat and mended his stockings.  
  
As Adam lifted the scales, they swung gently in the gathering breeze, bright copper in the increasing dimness, against which the crown seemed to be fighting with all its strength.  Sophia had shut her eyes against the brightness, trembling in pain.  Uriel and Madame Tracy held her tightly.  
  
With his other hand, Adam lifted the sword, which shimmered as if with hidden embers.  
  
"Oh dear," Aziraphale whispered, tugging on Crowley's sleeve.  
  
Adam paused in front of them, briefly considering the items in his hands.  He held the scales out to Aziraphale and said, "I think it could do with a feather."  
  
Aziraphale nodded, staring at the scales as if he wasn't certain of what to do with them, but they went still as soon as the wind calmed, the balance swinging gentle and even.  
  
"And I sure hope," Adam said, turning to Crowley, "that you know how to handle one of these."  
  
Crowley took hold of the sword, wide-eyed behind his sunglasses, as if he expected the weapon to bite him.  It shimmered for a moment longer, then flamed as brightly as the crown.  
  
Again, the thunder echoed around them, almost diminished by Sophia's wail.  
  
"I'm counting on you," Adam said, and stepped back to his wife's side.  
  
"Urk," said Crowley.  
  
"At least it's not a tyre iron," Aziraphale pointed out, and took his hand.  
  
As they kissed, their wings unfurled and, after a moment's gleaming, vanished.  
  
At the third and final crash of thunder, the earth and the sky burst open.  
  
  
  


**_Nullus_.**

  
  
  
In the End, on the Throne, there was silence.   
  
A cloaked figure hovered behind it, its vast, black wings already half unfurled.  Its bony fingers rested on the high, gilded back, waiting.   
  
The Figure on the Throne sat with His hands folded in His lap, watching.  
  
IT DOESN'T LOOK GOOD FOR EITHER SIDE, DOES IT?  
  
"No," sighed the Figure.  "It most definitely doesn't."  
  


  
  
YOU COULD'VE STOPPED THIS, YOU KNOW.  
  
"No, that's the thing—I _couldn't_.  They had to choose."  
  
ALL OF THEM?  
  
"Yes," said the Figure, quietly.  "All of them."  
  
THEN IT REALLY IS 'GAME OVER, INSERT COIN'?  
  
"Well, no.  Not if we call it a truce and agree to Continue."  
  
WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?  
  
"There isn't," said the Figure, patiently.  "Not usually, anyway."  
  
HUH, said Azrael, considering.  YOU HAVE A POINT.  
  
"Are we agreed, then?"  
  
ONCE AND FOR ALL?  
  
The Figure nodded firmly, extending His formidable hand.  
  
I SUPPOSE, Azrael sighed, and took it.  
  
On Earth, there was a tremor, and the silence was shattered by a newborn's cry.  
  



	3. A Crown of Stars: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle

 

  


  
  
Crowley did not let go of the sword until he felt its blade slice through bone.  As if in mockery of Michael’s last, anguished scream, a newborn’s cry pierced the humid, blood-hazed air.  From above, something like wind knifed through the heavy clouds, raining down Light upon them all.  
  
“About time,” Crowley said hoarsely, and fainted.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
The brightness was blinding, even for somebody who was used to Heaven.  The child sounded angry now, even from a distance, though no angrier than he ought to sound and _certainly_ no angrier than any other human infant.  The raindrops fell softly at first, no more than a dusting of mist, then swelled, splattering, soaking the bloodstained ground.  
  
Aziraphale clutched his ragged, throbbing arm to his chest and fell back, exhausted, on the grass.  Lucifer had dissolved in the very moment that the scales had not balanced, but not before dealing a blow of his own.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
When Crowley came to, it was raining hard enough that the wet and sticky patches of his clothing could no longer be solely attributed to blood.  He stumbled to his feet, almost slipping in the mud, wincing at the sight of Michael’s body.  
  
The archangel’s breastplate was rent from heart to stomach, the white robe beneath it gashed and bloody.  He stared sightlessly at the sky, gray eyes empty, and the rain had already flattened his long, dark locks into a soaked and spidery halo.  Aziraphale’s sword had not entirely dislodged from the chest-wound, not even when the archangel had fallen.  It was—  
  
 _Aziraphale_.  
  
Ignoring the stinging in his shoulder, Crowley seized the sword, yanked it free, and made his way down the slope where Tanith lay, arms outstretched, with another demon’s arrow in her back.  Muttering a prayer, Crowley thrust the sword in the earth, stepped over her, and ran.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
The field, it seemed, was stirring to life.  Aziraphale could hear shouting and running, and even some cheering, though it was muted and surely as far away as the airbase.  He opened his eyes for a moment, only to find that they wouldn’t stay – not on account of the Light, which had faded, but on account of the fact that he seemed to be very quickly drifting to sleep.  Someone passed by at a limping pace, startling him.  
  
“Oh,” said a familiar voice, dropping to a hush as the archangel paused beside him.  “It’s—Raphael, _help_ me, it’s—”  
  
“Gone,” Raphael said, and the pain in his tone was more than just grief.  “We’re to help only the wounded, _then_ —”  
  
“You are a bloody fool,” Uriel said, tearful, but they limped away again.  
  
“Peace,” said Raphael, soothing.  “He’s Crowley’s to find.”  
  
From the grass, Aziraphale whispered that he was all right, really, but they had already gone, and he couldn’t seem to find the strength to shout.  His arm pulsed, burning.  
  
  


***        *        ***

  
  
  
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Crowley thought.  Nothing was.  In his search, he’d found many wounded, and each one had begged his help.  Unable to refuse, he’d taken them wherever it was they’d needed to go: three feet, three yards, a mile.  He passed Uriel as she carried an injured human, and she turned her face away.  
  
That was, of course, when he tripped on the scales.  
  
The only sign that Aziraphale lived was that he’d reverted to breathing.  Unable to draw breath himself, Crowley sank down beside him, carefully setting the scales aside.  Aziraphale had drawn his arm in tightly against his chest, which was where most of the blood seemed to be concentrated.  Crowley touched the back of Aziraphale’s hand, then gingerly took hold of his wrist, turning the limb outward.  The fabric fell loose, both coat and shirtsleeves, revealing four deep, inflamed gashes that ran from the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow nearly to his palm.  Crowley hissed and covered them again, bending as close to Aziraphale as he dared.  A demon’s claws were as poisonous to an angel as a snake’s fangs to a human.  He shook Aziraphale gently.  
  
“You’re alive,” Crowley said, not daring to phrase it as a question.  “Aziraphale, you _stupid_ —”  
  
“Oh,” yawned Aziraphale, blinking up at Crowley with somewhat glazed eyes.  “There you are.  I would’ve called, but…can’t seem.  To.  Ummm.”  
  
Crowley closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He hadn’t expected an answer, and frankly, the one he’d gotten was enough to make him weep.  He _shouldn’t_.  He’d lost his blasted sunglasses early on, and Michael had been a smug bastard.  
  
“Well, then,” he said, sniffing loudly, glancing the other way as he worked his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and lifted him, “that’s settled.  Let’s get you—”  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and took hold of him with both arms, even the poisoned one, even in spite of the fact that Crowley was covered in an archangel’s blood.  
  
“Hell,” Crowley whispered, pulling him in close, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, though it had gotten steadily worse.  “I want you to know, they got it wrong.  It was…”  
  
“No more,” Aziraphale said softly, his words muffled against Crowley’s shoulder.  “It’s no more, and there shall be a new—oh, my dear, hush.  Oh, _love_.”  
  
For all the victories they’d won, Crowley thought, there was no shame in surrendering to tears here at the last, at the first, in the Beginning.  
  



	4. Postcript: Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle

Like most military installations, the airbase had medical facilities. The infirmary consisted of two separate rooms, one of which was stocked with supplies that suggested it was meant to serve as a makeshift surgery. Raphael had fished out all the various kinds of bandages that he could find, along with sutures and antiseptics, and told Uriel to see about getting rid of all the dust. She'd glared at him, snapped her fingers, and walked out.  
  
Raphael washed the blood off his hands, listening intently to the voices in the next room. Joshua and Miriam were still with Sophia. The birth had happened quickly, and she and the child had been without medical attention until near the battle's end.  
  
"Can I go, sir?" asked Brian. He pressed on the newly bandaged portion of his thigh, then winced. "I won't need crutches, will I?" He sounded frightfully young.  
  
"No more than I will," Raphael reassured him, smiling, and dried off his hands. He fetched his cane from where he'd propped it against the wall and tapped on his own heavily bandaged calf. "Less, even. Mind that you don't worry the stitches."  
  
"I feel dizzy," Brian said, easing himself off the table.  
  
"That'll be the blood loss," Raphael said matter-of-factly, clapping him on the shoulder. "I advise you to walk no more than you must. Now, young man, get out of here. I'm sure Adam would like to see you."  
  
"Yes, sir," Brian said, dazed, and gingerly limped out.  
  
Curious, Raphael followed him to the door. The line of chairs was occupied by those awaiting their turn, those who had been brought or had managed to make it off the battlefield themselves. Raphael had helped Uriel bring a dozen or more before staying behind in the surgery and starting on the patients.  
  
At the end of the hall, Adam Young stood with a bundle in his arms. Brian had already spotted him, trying to walk faster. Adam met his friend halfway, and their voices were no more than a whisper above the building commotion.  
  
"Out of the way!" Uriel shouted, appearing around the corner. "He's unconscious and bleeding, I said _out_ —"  
  
Raphael took one glance at who she carried and who was helping her, then stepped back into the surgery. He fetched one of the folded towels from the shelf over the sink and hoped that it hadn't collected too much dust. He didn't have enough time to be shocked, but it seemed that there was enough for him to be sufficiently ashamed that he had, on the battlefield, taken his next patient for dead.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"The line's thinned," Uriel said some hours later, holding the door. The angel that Raphael had just treated wasn't accustomed to having one eye patched over with gauze, and his depth perception seemed off. She made sure he was well up the hall before she turned around and said, "Do you want me to see if Joshua will take them?"  
  
"Yes," Raphael said, turning on the water. The sink's stainless steel basin looked by now as if somebody's throat had been cut over it. "If you'd be so kind."  
  
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Uriel said, and briskly walked out.  
  
Raphael let the water run over his hands, watching the blood swirl in intricate patterns. The humans, now, they were easy to fix. They could be healed by your standard miracle, provided the damage wasn't _too_ severe. Angels and demons—or whatever the fuck was the right term for them now—were more difficult. They'd gone around sticking each other with the equivalent of poisoned weapons, and wounds like those couldn't just be erased.  
  
He felt Crowley's presence in the doorway before he could turn around.  
  
"Tsk," Raphael scolded, drying his hands again. "You shouldn't have run off, darling. All those good deeds couldn't _possibly_ be worth dropping dead on us."  
  
Wordlessly, Crowley shoved himself away from the doorframe and strode across the room. He was doing an admirable job of seeming unconcerned, or as admirable a job as one could do when his face was streaked with dirt, sweat, and blood. He had his jacket folded over his left arm, but his right—sleeve ragged and dangling, drenched and singed—hung limply at his side. He hoisted himself onto the table, wincing.  
  
"My pleasure," he said acidly. In the brightly lit room, his yellow eyes were startling.  
  
Raphael ignored him and stepped up close, studying the wound. Michael must have caught him at close range, as the blade had bit down almost to the bone. It wasn't the worst injury he could've sustained, but if he'd caught it on his sword arm—  
  
"I don't want to hear it."  
  
"No, of course not," Raphael said, picking some shreds of formerly white linen out of the way. Briefly, he wondered where Crowley did his shopping. "Nobody wants to hear that a single blow taken elsewhere would've been the end of him. Sit _still_."  
  
"I'm afraid," said Crowley, through gritted teeth, "that I'll always hate you."  
  
"That's the least of my concerns," Raphael said, finally looking him in the eye. "I'll draw off the poison, but this will have to be cleaned and stitched."  
  
"The wonders of Celestial medicine."  
  
" _Saucy_ ," Raphael said, delighted. He reached for Crowley's shirt buttons, only to have his hand instantly smacked away. "Have it your way," he amended, and reached for the scissors. Crowley glowered at him as he cut the garment away.  
  
"I heard you quit after the Plague," he muttered.  
  
"Temporarily," Raphael replied, tossing Crowley's ruined shirt on the floor. He reached for a wad of gauze he'd set to soak in a dish of antiseptic and applied it firmly to Crowley's shoulder. "Desperate times, desperate measures."  
  
Crowley hissed in pain, clutching the edge of the table.  
  
"Then or now?" he asked weakly.  
  
"Both," Raphael said, peeling the bloody gauze away, and repeated the process. He noticed that Crowley was pointedly looking in the opposite direction, eyes wider than when he'd first walked in the door. "There," he said, tossing away the second wad of gauze, and clapped Crowley on the back. "Wings out."  
  


  
  
Crowley turned his head sharply, glaring.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I imagine you'll have no trouble," Raphael explained. "Frankly, I'm amazed that you're still upright, but I've got to check anyway. Aziraphale couldn't—"  
  
"Don't expect me to thank you," Crowley snapped.  
  
"He's in the next room," Raphael said reasonably, prodding the middle of Crowley's back until he felt the familiar shift, the wild beat beneath his fingertips. "Resting off the—"  
  
Without warning, a flurry of ruffled feathers smacked him in the eye.  
  
"Sorry. Must've damaged my motor skills."  
  
"I doubt it," said Raphael, rubbing his eye with one hand and setting the other directly over Crowley's shoulder. He felt the demon stiffen and tremble under the white-hot blaze of his palm. By the end of it, Crowley was sagging and looked as if he might fall over at any moment.  
  
"Is…that…?"  
  
"No," said Raphael, brusquely, reaching for the sutures.  
  
Crowley took the last leg of the procedure in silence, flinching every time Raphael pulled a stitch tight. Uriel was lurking about in the hall, likely pacing, but Raphael wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of entry. Thirty-six stitches total, and still there was silence.  
  
"You've done very well," Raphael said, passing his hand over the wound a second time.  
  
"Thanksss."  
  
Before Raphael could reach for fresh gauze, Crowley was already off the table and bandaged. He tucked his wings away as quickly as he'd manifested them, then seemed to remember, nervously, that he was shirtless. The new shirt was as fine as his old one.  
  
"Avoid using that arm," Raphael advised him, dropping the tweezers in the sink. "Good as new, darling, the both of you. I appreciate your cooperation."  
  
"And I'd appreciate it if you kept your petty jealousies to yourself," Crowley said, and left.  
  
Some people, Raphael thought guiltily, would _never_ learn.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Aziraphale had given up on trying to open his eyes. Except for the pain, everything was hazy. He knew that he'd been carried somewhere, carried by Crowley and somebody else. And that there'd been another familiar somebody, and searing heat along his arm, and more pain, and then silence. He'd been carried again, but not by Crowley.  
  
"She's frail," said a hushed woman's voice. "After a birth like that - she's so small."  
  
"Like her father," said another woman's voice, this one tired and tear-heavy.  
  
"You should go. Your daughters will worry."  
  
"They're at home with Newt."  
  
"Send one of them in your place. You've been here for hours."  
  
"Miriam, I'm not tired enough to—"  
  
"I'm sorry," said Crowley, interrupting them out of nowhere. "I mean," he added, more softly, "is this…"  
  
"Far corner, second from the left," said the voice called Miriam.  
  
"Thank you," Crowley said, sounding out of breath as he approached. "Thank you _so_ —"  
  
There was the sound of a curtain close to Aziraphale, and bright light on the backs of his eyelids. Just as suddenly, the light faded as Crowley leaned over him. There was nothing but silence for long, interminable seconds, as if Crowley was taking inventory of him. Crowley's fingertips brushed his arm, which felt very bandaged and very numb, and the faintest echo of stinging rising to meet them. Aziraphale sighed.  
  
"First off, don't," Crowley said softly, sinking down beside him and leaning on the edge of the mattress. "I don't want you talking. If you can't get out your wings, you certainly oughtn't be talking."  
  
 _Now_ , thought Aziraphale, faintly, _I don't know about that_.  
  
"Well, I do," Crowley told him, "or that bloody doctor of yours does, anyway."  
  
 _Not mine_. _Not anymore_.  
  
"Not mine, either," Crowley said, carefully taking hold of Aziraphale's hand. "I don't care what's changed, angel."  
  
 _You've changed_ , Aziraphale thought, thinking of a smile.  
  
Crowley made a choked sound.  
  
"So've you."  
  
 _Not for the worse, I hope_. _Wait, don't answer that_.  
  
"Who do I need to talk to about getting you home? Because I'm not going back—"  
  
Aziraphale imagined his fingers moving, curling around Crowley's, and they did.  
  
 _Ask Uriel_ , he suggested.  
  
"Yeah," Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale's hand briefly before letting go. He was gone before Aziraphale could reconsider his suggestion. Uriel had a lot of work to do, and she'd probably just tell him—  
  
The air stirred, and Crowley sat down on the edge of the mattress with a heavy sigh.  
  
 _No luck?_  
  
"She's, er, busy at the moment," said Crowley, vaguely. "Isn't there another bed here?"  
  
 _None free, they said_.  
  
"That would figure," Crowley muttered.  
  
 _My dear, lie down_.  
  
"I don't think they'd take kindly to my squashing you."  
  
 _Move me_. _There's room_.  
  
And, just like that, there was.  
  
With Crowley's head warm against his shoulder, Aziraphale slept.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"Your hands are going to dry out," Uriel said, closing the door behind her. "They must have some lotion around here somewhere." She watched Raphael toss the towel onto a pile of bloodied rags on the floor. "You might want to take care of that," she suggested.  
  
"Why?" Raphael asked, turning, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink. "It's not as if it's hazardous to our health."  
  
"There are humans here," Uriel said gently. "It's hazardous to _them_."  
  
"Nonsense," Raphael said, flashing her a tired smile. "They're in the next room."  
  
Uriel made the rags vanish and gave him a pointed look.  
  
"Oh, darling," he sighed. "Not this again."  
  
"Would you like to hear about the body count?"  
  
Raphael's eyes flickered, briefly tired and desperate.  
  
"Why do you do this?"  
  
"Because," Uriel said, taking him by the hand and leading him away from the sink, "you've been gunning for this ever since you brought us back from the cottage."  
  
"I can't help it, darling," Raphael said, eyes brightening as she backed him up against the table. "You look _fabulous_ in a skirt."  
  
Uriel wanted to laugh. Instead, she set her hands on his hips and said, "You don't look half bad in trousers."  
  
"I hate trousers."  
  
"I hate skirts."  
  
It wasn't reassuring, really, to discover that Raphael hadn't gotten any better at kissing than the last time she'd kissed him, but that had been at least six or seven centuries ago. Uriel hitched up the somber, pleated black taffeta—stiff with dry blood, dear God—and half pushed, half lifted him onto the edge of the table.  
  
"You always _could_ sweep a girl off his feet."  
  
Uriel brushed his arousal with the back of her hand. "You're too predictable."  
  
He gasped, eyes tightly closed. "Sorry to disappoint."  
  
"You'll do," Uriel said, and kissed him again.  
  
 _Anything_ was better than the Plague, and the table was almost comfortable.


	5. Closed Doors

After ten minutes, the phone hadn't stopped ringing. Uriel tensed, one hand wound in the pillowcase and the other in her bedfellow's short, soft hair. _One more minute_ , she thought. _Hell, just half a minute would do—_

" _AUGH!_ I'mgoingtofucking _smash_ thatbloodymotherfucking—"

Uriel opened her eyes wide, desperately searching the cracks in Madame Tracy's ceiling paint for the antidote to centuries of repressed frustration with human technology of the noisy, automatic variety. Her fingers had flown to Raphael's shoulders of their own accord, interlocking over his spine. The shock of his failure to vault off the sofa bed momentarily knocked the wind out of her lately overused lungs.

"You said _bloody_ ," she blurted, her arms vibrating with the strain.

Raphael froze, his breath a startled puff against Uriel's nose as his body went slack.

"That I did, darling," he said, defeated, burying his face in the pillow.

"I'm sorry," Uriel said, trying her best to sound earnest. "Really, I am," she added, mentally thanking whoever had been on the other end of the phone that they'd acquired the good sense to hang up.

"All in a week's work, thwarting Armagaindon. I need my beauty sleep."

Uriel shoved her palms into Raphael's ribs. _Scarcely_ a week had gone by, and the affectionate nickname was growing old. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't let it get to the children. They'd be calling the War by that name until they were old enough to consider themselves veterans, and somehow, she knew they would.

Raphael raised his head, propping his chin on one hand. He studied Uriel with fierce concentration, an expression entirely too serious for how utterly ridiculous his hair looked. She'd never seen a human's hair try to stick out in so many directions at once. Then again, your average head of human hair wasn't up to it.

"You," he said, bringing his left index finger down square on Uriel's nose, "find my sense of humor—yea, verily, and even my hair—truly and utterly appalling."

"I find this situation truly and utterly appalling."

Raphael frowned at her, his hand briefly fisting before skimming down the side of her cheek more lightly than his wingtip had the night before. For several nights running, come to think of it. Uriel returned the frown, chewing on her lower lip.

"That's far, far too encouraging," Raphael said, breaking into a grin. He kissed her neck, humming softly. "What I find appalling is that you still smell of smoke."

"That's _your_ fault," Uriel protested. She smacked his arse, then pinched it—gently, of course, to make up for the sting. "I quit, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I hadn't, unless the laws of nature have been rewritten such that cloves don't count."

"I really hate you."

"Mmmhmm."

"Honest. It's why I stopped letting this happen."

"Your willpower is stunning. I'm thoroughly enjoying the demonstration."

At that moment, the phone resumed ringing. 

Raphael bit the spot he'd otherwise been licking.

"Saved by the bell," squeaked Uriel, and rolled out from under him. "Hello?"

*

"Am I, er, interrupting something?" Crowley asked, grimacing into the mouthpiece. He could hear shuffling and swearing in the background, and it didn't sound in the least like Madame Tracy or any of the resident ghosts.

"Um, nope," said Uriel's voice, slightly out of breath. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Aziraphale finds my company lacking," said Crowley, lowering his voice with a nervous glance up the stairs. "Apparently I'm _too_ attentive. He's been asking for you. I've put off calling for three days now. There, I've been honest with you. Sorry I've not answered any of the messages, you know, the shoulder's been a bit stiff—"

" _CROWLEY?_ " Aziraphale's voice echoed down the stairwell, almost plaintive.

Uriel made an impressed noise on the other end of the line. "If he's got enough strength to shout like that, I should think he'll be up and around in no—"

"Crowley, I _do_ hope you haven't bothered to make tea. It's too early."

"Help," said Crowley, in a small voice, and quickly hung up the phone.

Aziraphale was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down at him impatiently.

"My dear, would you be so good as to come back to bed?" he asked, smiling mischievously. Crowley was sure he was the only person on the planet—or anywhere—who knew that the look was, in fact, one of mischief. The other options were too ridiculous and didn't bear considering. He knew better than anyone else, because he'd spent years considering them all before he'd realized he was way off the mark.

"Er," said Crowley, making sure the phone was lying straight in its cradle. "Coming!"

"I should _hope_ so," Aziraphale replied, and his footsteps retreated.

Crowley sagged against the desk, peeling a piece of memo paper riddled with book orders off his palm. Not that he wasn't glad the world hadn't almost gone up in smoke and taken them with it a second time, but he was dead sure that getting more sex than sleep in the aftermath was just _not_ on. If he ever got out of the bedroom, he was going to take Uriel out for a drink. Or two, or even ten.


	6. C.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set 100 years later, hence the Roman-numeral title.

"Gladys! Gladys, come back here this _instant_!"

"That won't work, Anne. Galadriel _Pepper_ , you _heard_ your mother!"

Gladys doesn't stop, not even as her mother's voice rises in fury, and _certainly_ not as Grandma Tildy's voice joins the fray. She doesn't understand why they haven't come to grips with the fact that calling her by her full name hasn't worked since she was at least four. By the time Gladys reaches the edge of the field, the older women, pink-faced and panting, have long fallen behind. 

As the warm summer wind skims the high grass, Gladys shivers and steps in.

There's something about this place that unsettles Gladys, even though all the eleven year-olds in Lower Tadfield know it's the best place for hiding when you're in trouble. She'd noticed from an early age that the adults seem to avoid it if they can, and thus learned of its merits. No one owns the field. It never gets cut, not even in haying season. Gladys ducks low, feeling safer close to the ground. Sometimes the tunnels that she makes with her younger brother, Wes, stay intact for days on end. Today, she appears to have her work cut out for her, and so sets about making a new one.

Not all of the adults in Lower Tadfield are as exasperating as Mum and Grandma Tildy. Her father, Joseph Young, is very well liked by all her friends. He has dark hair and bright blue eyes just like _his_ father—who always says, as he sits in the corner and reads magazines with very few pictures, "We got the hair from my mother and the eyes from my father, best of both worlds"—and he always, _always_ smiles.

Her grandfather smiles sadly at his magazines, probably remembering Gladys's other grandmother, his wife, who died when Gladys was very small. Aziraphale, one of the angels, tells her when she goes to the bookshop for tea that Grandma Elise lived in London before the War. She escaped with her parents, who joined a refugee band that ended up in Lower Tadfield. She grew up to become one of the first great journalists of her grandfather's generation. Crowley, Aziraphale's partner—also an angel, which Grandma Tildy says used to be only in stories—sits in the corner with his own magazines, considerably more colorful, and tells her that her grandfather didn't fall in love with Elise because of her writing. Some days, she wishes her grandmother hadn't been ill, especially since people seem to live so long. As she burrows deeper to where the stalks are cool, she finds it's one of those days.

Briefly, Gladys stands to her full height, scanning the rippling, pale golden sea that falls just below eye level. The spot she's looking for isn't far off. Nothing marks the spot, no _X_ like in her grandfather's pirate stories—which he says he got from _his_ father, just like the eyes. Gladys ducks low again and, wielding her linked arms out in front of her like a sword, starts to run.

Sometimes, she thinks she must be the only person who misses people she's never met. Uriel, who isn't always around, keeps a small flat that smells like roses and incense. When she is, she has Gladys and Aziraphale over for tea, which seems to attract Raphael—tall and lovelier than her mother, Gladys thinks—out of nowhere, the predictable rap-rap of his walking stick downstairs. On cozy winter evenings, her favorite thing is to listen to Raphael's stories of Madame Tracy, the woman who used to live there. Sometimes, other knocking sounds come about as they talk, filling the place with a sense of completeness.

The dizziness takes Gladys like a seizure. She stops and closes her eyes.

Her grandfather tells her that all the world went through a change in the year he was born. He holds her close when he tells her that his mother, Great-Grandma Sophie, was in labor without any doctor to attend her, and if Madame Tracy hadn't been there, she surely would have died—and he probably would have, too. He tells her about Uriel perched high on the old Air Base watchtower with her bow and arrow trained up to one cold grey eye, waiting. He tells her about Crowley with his sword, and he tells her how Aziraphale nearly died. She hadn't known angels could die.

Above all, he tells her about his father and the way the world Was.

Gladys opens her eyes and kneels down. As she flattens the tall stalks in a wide circle, she supposes that she's very lucky to be alive in a world that's still new and sorting itself out. Most of the time, the Old World sounds terrifying, but there are times when it sounds wonderful, too, because extraordinary people lived in it. Grandma Tildy squeezes her hand every time they say goodbye—which is never for long—and there are always tears in her eyes. Gladys's mother explains that this is because she misses her older sister more than she'll ever admit. Gladys's great aunt died early in the War, her mother tells her, at the hands of demons, which also used to be only in stories. Once, when Gladys was very small, she asked if Grandma Tildy cried because she was named after her great aunt. Instead of answering, Gladys's mother touched her hair and wept. After that, Gladys didn't ask any more questions.

The memories hurt people, Gladys reckons as she settles herself down, but they also give her something to think about when she's tired of her school lessons and being followed around by Wes. Her grandfather's stories of _his_ grandparents, Anathema and Newt, are the happiest stories her family has. Writing and changing history are in Gladys's blood, and the tingle down her spine tells her the story isn't over at all.

Seth's red-headed granddaughter lies back, dreaming under the August sun.


End file.
